


To Fall

by TheGameIsOn_Geronimo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Reichenbach Feels, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGameIsOn_Geronimo/pseuds/TheGameIsOn_Geronimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson watched his friend dive onto unyielding pavement.<br/>Now, he wants to do the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Leaving this a bit late, with the new series starting later.  
> All mistakes are my own  
> Warning of suicide attempt.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Sherlock or the characters.  
> Enjoy!

The wind whips around my body as I step out onto the smooth asphalt of the roof. It feels sharp and biting on my cheeks - but that's better than the numb feeling that has been filling me for two years now. 

It's strange really; a long time ago I expected to die out in the glaring sun with gunshots ringing in my ears. And then after that imagining vanished, I thought I would die in the streets of London, while trying to stop bad things. All those deaths would have had a cause - a reason to die for. What was the reason here?

The only noise is the air around me, and my regular steps. I should be scared - I know that - but I'm not, for a long time this has felt inevitable.

I walk onto the ledge and automatically look down - reflexes causing my body to try and shy away from the four storey drop. But I don't budge; this is happening now.

The pavement looks so far away. I wonder if this is how he saw it. If he traced the lines of the slabs with those piercing eyes. If he felt any fear or guilt, or if, like me, he had just resigned himself to know it was necessary.

My eyes follow the people wandering about so far below. They are scarcely taller than my thumb from this height. They meander to and fro almost pointlessly, but still they are happy and lucky - the one person they care about the most is probably still alive.

"Hm, quite a long drop, from this angle? Dead for sure as soon as you hit the pavement." his voice cuts through the swirling storm of my mind.

I look up. The shadowy figure dances along the ledge on nimble feet. His coats flaps out in the breeze as his arms stretch out for balance that he doesn't need. He isn't really here. Sherlock Holmes is dead.

My eyes strain to find his features in the shadowy face, but it is hidden from me. My memory is failing to recall his complexion. The sharp prominence of his cheekbones, the tumbling curls framing the pale face, the smooth curve of his lips, and the pointed nose. 

The only feature that greets my eyes are his own eyes. They are a vibrant blue that cut into me with such force they almost seem real, despite the dead, empty look in them.

I know why I remember those eyes the clearest - they were the last thing I saw of him. That day when I reached for his cold hand, desperately trying to be closer, to do something. That day was when I last saw the blue eyes shining blankly at the sky, contrasting vividly with the red blood pooling around him, matting his curls and dripping down a lifeless cheek.

When they - Lestrade and Molly and Mrs Hudson and Mycroft- found out that I still saw him, they worried. Who wouldn't? They thought I was going mad with grief, that I should see my therapist again. I adamantly refused, of course - how could I ever stop myself imaging him, if this was the only way I could ever see him again?

"Good." I say into the emptiness in front of me. He has come to a stop next to my right side and tilts his head - even in my own head, he assesses me.

"Are you scared?"

"No"

"Good." he repeats my answer from earlier, "You have to remember, falling is a lot like flying except with a more permanent destination."

I close my eyes then. I imagine doing it. Imagine the freedom as I drop. Down. Down. Down. Imagine how the wind would howl around me as if it was trying to stop my decent - save me - or was mourning me already. I imagine the flash of pain as flesh and bone hits hard stone and then the empty nothingness that would follow. No pain. No grief. No loneliness.

And then I imagine a new world - I don't know if I believe in an afterlife, but maybe just maybe they exist. I imagine Sherlock standing there, arms outstretched waiting for me. How he would smile and tell me he missed me - though would Sherlock ever reveal such a weakness? How, in that place, we could never be separated, or broken apart, certainly not by something as almost trivial as death. I smile slightly.

"I'm ready." I announce, heart thudding hard against my ribcage, perhaps it knows that it doesn't have long left the pulse. 

The ghost appraises me again, almost calmly, but I can just make out a soft smile on red lips within the smoke of his face.  
"Take my hand." he tells me, turning so he too is facing the edge, like the real him had done all those years previously.

I smile at the remembered case, and raise my arms, reaching for him.

My hand goes straight through his, of course, dissipating it like fog, but even so I feel warmth creep along my arm into my chest. He is here with me. I am not doing this alone.

I close my eyes and start to lean forwards but then.

Warmth. Heat. Skin. 

It grabs my shoulder and tugs me back, causing my feet to slip back off the ledge as I fall against solidity and rough fabric. My mouth opens in protest, instantly straining forwards to try and reach the edge. I need this. I can't keep going on my own.

I watch as the ghost Sherlock stretches out his arms and then plummets - that nightmarish day filling my whole mind. I might be screaming.

I suddenly whirl round, trying to face my... What do you call someone who stops your suicide attempt? A saviour? I open my mouth to shout, to scream; pull my fish back, to punch, to hit.

Neither of those actions gets fulfilled. 

Blue fills my vision.

I choke on any words I may have had.

My chest feels too tight.

The floor has dropped out from under me.

My legs buckle in shock, and strong, secure arms catch me, hold me close. His heat and strength tell me that he is real.  
My mind reels. How can that be?

He is exactly as I remember him, but also not. The cheeks seem more sunken, the skin more ashen, the lips look more lifeless - but perhaps that's just me projecting the last face of him I saw onto this one. Either way - being a ghost has not been that kind to Sherlock Holmes.

His eyes though. They're alive. That's all I need to know.

He might be talking. I can feel the deep baritone voice rumbling through his chest as he grasps me tight. All I hear is ringing. 

Perhaps I'm dead. Maybe it worked. Maybe this is an afterlife. But, no. It seems too... Real. The wind is still blowing though my hair, the chill still biting my bare skin. Reality is strange, but I think I can recognize it when I'm in it. The only thing telling me otherwise is that my best friend is alive.

I push the thoughts away and concentrate on his voice, his words, his very presence. He is saying apologies and begging me to respond and shaking me in his desperation.

I blink slowly and allow a tear of pure joy to trickle down my cheek, and for one second I don't care that he lied to me, that he let me suffer. That anger will come later, but for right now, there is only relief,

"Oh Sherlock," my voice breaks, "You finally came home to me."


End file.
